The Irish standard., 1887-07-16

lyric since Burns "To Mary il
Heaven
TIE IRISH PEASANT GIRL,
She lived beside the Amer,
At the foot of Slievenamon,
gentle peasant girl,
With mild eyes like the dawn:
Her lips We're dewey rosebuds;
Her teeth of pearls rare;
And snow-drift meath beechen bough
Her neck and nut-brown hair.
How pleasant twas to meet her
On Sunday, when the bell
Was filling with its mellow tones
Lone wood and grassy dell!
And when at eve young maidens
Strayed the river bank along.
The Widows brown-haired daughter
Was LOWEST of the throng
0 brave, brave Irish girls
We we'll may call you brave
Sure the least of all your perils
Is the stormy ocean wave.
When ye leave your quiet valleys,
And croes the Atlantlc's foam,
To hoard your harG-won earnings
For the helpless ones at home.
Write word to my dear mother
Say Well meet with God above:
And tell my little brothers
l send them all my love:
May the angels ever guard them
Is their dying sisters prayer
And folded in the letter
Was braid of nut-broyvn hair.
All, cold and well nigh callous,
This weary heart has grown,
For thy hap]ess fate, dear ireland,
And for sorrows of my own:
Yet a tear my eye will moisten
When by Amer side I stray,
For the lily of 'tle Mountain foot
That withered far away.
1t will be at once evident that the
sa' low undertone of sadness runs
through all Kickham's work. both in
prose and verse; heartstitied moan
for his country's lost nationhood and
the dark fate of her exiled children.
And is it any wonder that it should be
so, when, in the brief span OF fifty
years. ne saw all the golden valley of
his childhood, marked like a grave
yard, with the rootless cabins of as fine
a race as the hand of God ever planted
in any land under the broad dome Of
heaven
The .'Shan van Vocht'' breathes the
old yearning for physical force" agita-
ton
There are good ships on the sea,
Says the Shan van Voclt;
Thereare good ships on the sea,
And they're coming home to me.
With freight that's dear to see,
Says the Shan van Vocht
And the wedding supper IN 'sknocka-
gow'' is enriched by Matt Dolovan's S
song of the peasant farmer for the
time to comes"
I've pound for to lend and pound for to spend,
And cead mile failthe my word for a friend
No mortal envy, no master own,
Nor lord in his castle, nor king on his throne.
Come, fill up Your glasses. the first cup We'll
drain
To the comrades we lost on the red battle plain !!
Oh, Well cherish their fame, boys, who died long
And what's that to any man whether or no?
Have our worthy farmers of the
League" ever pictured to themselves
Naturalization scheme on the fol-
lowing "patthern D.
Come here, vanithce, sit beside me awhile,
And the pride Of your heart let me read in your
smile
Would you give your old home for the lordliest
hall;
Hal You glance at my rifle that hangs on the wall,
And your two gallant boys on parade day are seen
In the ranks Of the brave meath the banner of
green;
Oh! I've taught them to guard it 'gainst traitor
and foe
And what's that to any man whether or nor'
st. Johns Eve" and few unpub-
lished pieces make up the bulk of
Charles Kickham's contributions to
Irish poetry. All of them are 'tracy,
vigorous. and original"
Bat it is as the Irish novelist that
kickham excels His descriptions Of
Irish life and character, as protrayed in
Sally Cavanagh, ''Knocknagow,' y
and For the Old Land" the three
novels which he has left us in conlplet-
I'd form, are as true as anything in
print. His simple, pathetic way Of de-
oicting the Irish peasant at home, is i'll
marked contrast With the mean speci-
Dens OF humanity drawn by Lever,
Lover, and even Carleton i'll their ca'i
;atures for the English market, and
place him first among the story writer's
WHO have the spirit OF the Irish people
n their hearts and minds.
sFor the Old Land' was not finished
ill within three weeks of the authors
leath, and as his last contribution to
Irish literature, we consider it the first
IF that high ideal which, with the al
5ered condition OF the Irish nation,
hose who expect countenance i'll the
:uture must take. His countrymen
ire today raising q monument to his
memory, but more lasting than its
marble will be the affection and living
which his readers will ey er
EEL for him